Helena Ho

“Where are you from?”

Is a question directed to me on the school playground. It’s the curious stare of a gaggle of girls, seated in a circle at recess. The question makes me squirm, like a shrink under a microscope. It’s a clear statement about my otherness; an indication that I am somebody who will never quite belong no matter how hard I try to assimilate. Sandwiches instead of sticky rice, I tell Mum whenever she prepares my lunch. My friends don’t like how my food smells.

“Where are you from?”

Again, at a high school party nestled within Sydney’s north. You don’t seem Chinese, is a popular response. She’s a whitewashed Asian! Someone throws an arm around me laughing, and for a moment, my spirits will lift at the hint of acceptance and approval. Say something in Chinese! That makes me immediately flush; anger starting to seep in. I’m not a circus monkey who can spit out languages at anyone’s command. The question is alienating, whether or not that was the intention. An ever-present reminder that no matter how hard I try to assimilate to whiteness, my ethnicity will always have me categorised as ‘other’.

“Where are you from?”

My grandmother’s accusing tone at the dinner table, reminding me of my heritage. She is berating my mother for allowing me to give up on my Chinese lessons. She is losing her culture. I can hear her mutters; see the slight shake of her head whenever she asks me a question in our mother tongue, and is met with a blank stare. I’ll retire to my bedroom with my hands balled into fists, and wonder whether my mission to assimilate into Western society is really worth the sacrifice of no longer being able to converse with my elders.

“Where are you from?”

This time, the guy at the bar is standing precariously close. A cis-white man showering me with attention, throwing statements like a game of ring toss. You’re so pretty, for an Asian. Or, you look so exotic, it’s sexy. Again, singling out my heritage in a thinly-veiled attempt at flattery. Instead of attractive, I feel alien. My stomach churns at the thought of this man, or anyone, fetishizing women of Asian descent based on the colour of their skin. I leave the bar, alone.

“Where are you from?”

Is a question I ask myself, during an introspective moment before bed. I’m Australian, as per my passport and birth certificate. But I’m also undeniably Chinese, with a family tree that is rich in history and culture. All these years trying to fit in to white Australia, yearning for the stamp of approval from my Western friends while disregarding my native heritage altogether. “Where are you from?” is more than a question; it’s a reminder to not forgo my other identity in the search for a pretense of belonging and acceptance. So, ask me again, and this time I’ll no longer be made to feel ashamed of my cultural ties and background.